the toxicity of vices
by SlntLullaby
Summary: eddie-centric with peddie / ((time is a sneaky little thing in the way it tricks you into thinking you always have enough but you never really do.)) eddie's a sinner and (he's not making it to heaven). he committed those seven deadly sins that he learned about in church; that solomon had warned about. but the thing with life is, you ((find what you love, and let it kill you.))


**a/n: **I've always wanted to write a piece on Eddie and really get inside of his head since he came onto the show because I'm just intrigued and fascinated by him and then the whole sinner thing got me to thinking and well, anyone who knows me knows that my mind is a dangerous thing to be in and it produces things like this.

I apologize to you lovely readers in advance for my hazardous mind.

(Also I don't exactly do betas, and even though I'm usually rather good at reading it over when I'm finished and finding typos and grammar errors, there could be some anyway, so I'm sorry in advance for that too.)

**note**: This is before _The Touchstone of Ra_. Time changes between the past and the present.

**title**: the toxicity of vices

**rating**: T (this isn't for you kiddos, sorry)

**pov**: second;; _Eddie-centric_

**pairing**: eddie/patricia (but it's more centered on just eddie)

**warning**: _extreme_ angst, language, and some sexual activity talked about (not in depth), death

* * *

one;;** wrath**

"You just don't want to lose to Ben." _Ben. __Benji. _The name that falls off of your tongue like a dirty word.

The one person that makes your skin _crawl. _

When he's around, you can't help but narrow your eyes and pull your lips into a snarl.

You can't help the cockiness, the arrogance, that radiates from your being when he's near.

He knows just how to push your buttons.

How to make that lava deep within your core, surrounded by your cool exterior, bubble up until it seeps out everywhere and burns everything in its path.

You don't want to let him get to you but god, he just makes you so _angry._

When you first heard his voice after so long in _your _new(ish) school, you froze. You couldn't believe that he was back again. A blast from the past.

And you hate your past. You _loathe _everything about it (except your mother).

When you left America, you thought you put all those skeletons from your past way, way, way back in the closet, closed off from everyone. _Especially __yourself._

So when one of those horrid memories ((your _"arch-enemy"_)) fills the hollows of those dead bones and brings a forgotten corpse back to life, you don't take to it too kindly.

You see him wrap his fleshy arms around your girlfriend and you can't _stand _it.

You forget all about anything else in the room. Everyone around you is blurred from your vision. You have a responsibility to do and you know that - wait, what was it again? - (oh right, to catch Alfie), but that flies out of your mind as you watch him try to take what's yours once again. All the logical thoughts you have (Patricia would never leave you for him - she loves _you_, Ben is just doing it to get a rise out of you - so don't give him the satisfaction, it's _just_ an exercise they're doing for school) are all replaced with one thing: rage.

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

You turn away from Alfie.

"Hey!" you yell at Ben. Your voice is laced with nothing but _fury. _

You start to walk over to him and in that moment, you want to do nothing more than punch him right in his pretty little face.

But the sound of Alfie hitting the floor snaps you back to reality. Saves you from getting into trouble for yet _another _fight. ((Another thing from your past you never intended on reliving at this school.))

Shocked and disappointed faces of your peers. The pursed lips of Ms. Denby. An eye roll and a smug smile from Ben. A dirty look from Patricia.

The worst part of it all, is that no one _gets it. _Everyone thinks that you're overreacting.

They all say "Eddie calm down" or "What's gotten into you?" or "Ben's nice, I don't know what your problem is".

And that just causes your temper to flare even more.

Poor, _poor_ you. No one seems to care that you're about to _snap_.

Or maybe they just don't realize what Benjamin Reed does to you. ((But maybe you don't even fully realize what he does either.))

He's not just a nuisance to you anymore, he's the bane of your existence.

He's the only one who causes an extreme emotion to swell - an evil to rise up within you:

_Wrath._

* * *

two;; **envy**

You're Eddie Miller - irresponsible, lackadaisical confidante.

Cool as a cucumber. That's you. Right?

Wrong.

That same guy - _Benji_ - you cannot stand is also the one that you're just _oh so _jealous of.

He doesn't know the meaning of _hands off. _What's yours is yours.

Usually you can keep that green-eyed little monster down within yourself. Push it away, fake a smile. Of course, not with him.

He can push you to the point where you're fuming - your lips tight, your hands shaking, your breath heavy - to the point where you need to walk away.

You're not usually like this. That's not a lie. ((Or, that's what you keep telling yourself.))

What's true though, is that you can usually play it off, acting trusting and heedless.

And when you feign this carelessness, you can usually make yourself really believe it to be authentic.

But when Ben comes to the school, and you see him with Patricia who is - ahem - _your _girlfriend, it's not so easy to pass it off as nothing.

Sly smirks. A cocked eyebrow. Wandering eyes. Too close hands.

Patricia's books are on the ground. Your eyes flicker as _he _walks over and just ever so nicely helps her with them.

She flashes her pearly whites at him. ((And wait, since when did Patricia smile at people for helping her? Usually people are lucky if they get a thank you from her.))

Gears start turning in your brain.

_That eye contact was just a _little _too long._

_Their hands brushed just a _little _too much._

_Their smiles are just a _little _too coquettish._

_Their words have just a _little _too much underlying meaning to them._

And it's all in your head.

But you just feel a _little _too uneasy about this friendship ((is that what it even is?)) developing between your girlfriend and your rival.

You're talking about Ben to Fabian and KT and you're not sure exactly what you're saying but it seems to make sense.

KT grabs your arm and says, "Relax. Trust me, that girl only has eyes for you," as she pulls you away.

It doesn't reassure you.

You're supposed to be guiding a blindfolded Alfie around the room. Instead, you can only glare at Ben with ((yes, _your_)) girlfriend.

Alfie bumps into a chair and you look away long enough to say sorry. But gosh, ("Alfie, just, have you _seen_ Ben and Patricia?")

((No, of course not, he can't see. You forgot.))

You say, "All right, I'll tell you, he is _way _too close." And he is. He's practically on top of her and you are about to _flip out._

He grabs her, pulls her into him. ((The exercise is _no touching_, Ben.)) But once again, as always, he can't seem to wrap his mind around that concept though. _Hands. Off._

You hear her yell at him for not using just words. And _there's_ the Patricia you know.

You feel that swirling black abyss in the pit of your stomach going down. Fading away for the moment.

Then you see him pull out that Reed charm of his and in an instant, like the click of a camera button ((flash, flash)) that possessiveness, that sickening dark feeling is back.

You just want this feeling to go away. You're sick of it.

You don't know where she is. That red hair is nowhere to be found.

As you ask around ("Have you seen Patricia?") and find yourself met with endless no's, you start to get a sinking feeling as you wonder if she could be with _him._ ((But no, of course she wouldn't be - she knows how you dislike him so.))

You hear a whistle and bring yourself into the room that's the source of the noise.

Why of _course _Benji's in there. He seems to be everywhere that you are nowadays. You're starting to believe he can teleport.

You turn your head and your stomach drops, drops, drops as your realize that your suspicions were right.

You walk over to her and you want to be angry, but Christ, that's such a pretty face. You're mostly just hurt.

A voice interrupts your train of thought. Ben's. "Hello Milly. Come to check out the competition?"

You ignore him. You're not in the mood to deal with his snarky comments and fucking holier-than-thou attitude.

"_What _are you doing here?" you ask her with narrowed eyes. She doesn't answer and goodness you're fed up. ((Mostly with the fact that you're not able to pretend and hold back your jealousy.))

You turn and look at stupid Ben with his stupid face in his stupid blue uniform.

"What is she doing here?"

"I'm cutting oranges," Patricia says, and you can hear her annoyance.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Yeah, I can see you're _cutting oranges._" And there's that tone of irritation coming out in your own voice. You don't want to give Ben the fulfillment of knowing that he's causing that threatening reaction to lurk within you. You lower your voice, speak in a softer tone. "Why are you cutting them for _him_?" All you get from your girlfriend is a head shake.

"She's being a trooper." Oh, joyous. There's Ben, cutting in again. On the conversation you're pretty sure he _wasn't _invited to.

"She's not in your house!" You can't help the exasperation that leaks through and stains your words.

"Well, that just shows what a good sport she is, eh?"

Patricia smiles ((it's that smile that she's only ever reserved for _you_)).

And you're so overtaken with that stupid emotion that you can't think of a single thing to even say.

You, _Edison Miller_, are speechless. Patricia mouths _w__hat _at you. (Right, like she doesn't know exactly what you're feeling right now.)

When you're lying in bed and you close your eyes, these moments play over and over on the inside of your eyelids like a horror movie.

This _jealous__y _threatens your very core. It's neither subtle nor kind.

But you can't stand the thought - the anticipation - of losing something that's lodged so very close to the center of your heart.

So when that sense of abandonment strikes, when you see that devious, roaming gaze, one thing ignites, like a lit match being thrown on a rope soaked in kerosene:

_Envy._

* * *

three;; **gluttony**

You commit the sin in two different ways.

/

_Over-eating._

Food just tastes _so good. _You're not as bad as Alfie, of course. But you do have your moments.

Back when you first arrived at Anubis house, you always had late night cravings. ((It was probably because you were used to getting the munchies at endless hours of the night when you would get high. Ten o'clock was _early _for you.))

You'd sneak out of your room, closing the door on Fabian's soft snoring, and rummage through the fridge.

Stack at least six waffles on a plate (who can ever have enough?) and pile on the butter and the syrup and whipped cream (god, you _love _whipped cream) and ice cream.

Make yourself a sandwich and pile on the toppings. Slather mayonnaise and mustard on the foot-long bread. Lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, ham. That leftover roast beef looks good. Oh, what's in the cabinets? Crackers, chips, barbeque sauce. Cheez Whiz. Jellybeans. Some M&M's, why not? You're a sucker for chocolate.

Anyone who'd look at your plate would almost gag.

Victor wouldn't be able to take the sight of it. You can always recall his voice in your head clearly ("Boy, _what _do you think you're doing? Get that repulsive mess out of here this instant before I-"), but you'd always be scampering out of the kitchen before he could finish, your eyes wide as you struggled to balance the plate and run.

And even Alfie, king of food, would tell you that you're defacing the name of a sandwich.

You don't care, food is food. And you relish every moment you can stuff your face.

When you were younger, your mom used to say to you, "Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, baby boy."

Eventually, she gave up on your eating habits.

Back in the grand ol' US of A, your friends knew you as the kid who could eat a whole pizza by himself and still be hungry.

((It's a major wonder and awe still, really, how you're not three times your size.))

/

_For punishment._

You think it started when your dad left.

Everyone tried to help you through it. (("Oh Eddie, you _poor thing._")) Tried to make you smile and fill you with joy.

You didn't _want _to be happy though. You just wanted to be miserable.

So eventually, you looked for trouble.

Got into brawls, snapped back at your teachers, drank alcohol (oh you underage rebel, you), did drugs.

(Those illegal substances are mostly what you don't want your new friends - the ones who can't judge you on the things they know nothing about - to find out about.)

You just tried heavier and heavier things because ((no, you're not like most people who do it to forget the pain)), you smoked and snorted and injected to make yourself suffer - bring yourself total woe.

((Dear agony, you're so sorry.))

You reckon the reason you and Ben have such a rivalry is really mostly your fault.

He was a pretentious asshole, sure, but you asked for it.

You'd try to make him angry - get into a fight with him.

You relished the uncomfortable task of a quarrel.

Loved watching the arc to your fist as you swung ((oh man, _w__hat a beautiful thing_)).

Your rigid knuckles would make contact with his nose and ruby red blood would seep down his face.

You'd be so fascinated with it that you wouldn't even feel the gnarled hands grabbing you and dragging you away.

But you didn't really care that you were being brought to the principal's. They knew you wouldn't stop.

It was a game to you - (how many times can you get punished in the hopes of fixing you before they give up?)

Sometimes, late at night, you'd come home reeking of booze. You did it on purpose.

Your mom would be sitting in the leather armchair, the blue light of the TV casting an eerie shadow on her face. She wouldn't be mad - her face would just be etched with disappointment.

A sigh. "Eddie, you've got to _stop this. _You're not helping anyone by going out and getting drunk." ((But oh, was she wrong. You helped yourself stay distressed.))

"You're grounded, Eddie. _Again._"

A shrug from you as you headed upstairs. And great ((nailed it!)) you got yourself in trouble.

You lost yourself sometime within this period, and it was all for one reason:

_Gluttony._

* * *

four;; **sloth**

When you came to this new school, you told yourself you'd make more of an effort. You wouldn't let yourself get off track again.

((But you're not always so good at that.))

Back in America, you had little to no intention of doing much.

You were borderline failing school.

("Where's your homework, Edison?") ("I didn't feel like doing it, _okay_?")

("Edison, this is class time, pay attention.") ("I would, but wow, I'd rather not.")

Your mom would ask you to do things, but most of the time, they wouldn't get done.

("Can you _please _clean up this mess of a room Eddie?") You _were _gonna clean your room (hah, right) but then you got high instead.

("Fold the laundry.") You passed by the basket of clothes every day for a week and just looked at it. Nah, you'd decide. You had better things to do. ((Like sitting on the couch watching MTV.)) Sooner or later, your mom would just huff and lug the basket up to her room and fold it herself.

_What happened to her sweet, helpful little boy?_ she'd always wonder.

If your friends asked you for a favor you'd always be busy or "forget".

((Really, you were just lying on your bed playing video games, one leg dangling off the side.))

You remember one time hearing in church, "For Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."

You can't help but laugh as you sluggishly roll off of your bed at how true that reigns within your life.

Demons lurk deep within you, eating at your very soul, but do you really even care anymore?

Your mom would call you downstairs for dinner.

"Okay ma, I'll be down in a minute!" you'd yell with your eyes still glued to the TV as you'd use your controller to kill zombies.

Usually it'd take you about five minutes to pull yourself up from your gaming chair and make your way down to the kitchen.

But you progressively got slower. And slower. And slower.

One minute.

Three minutes.

Five minutes.

"Eddie!" you'd hear from downstairs.

"I'm coming!"

Seven minutes.

Ten minutes.

Twelve minutes.

"Come on Eddie! Your dinner's getting cold!"

At this point you'd be too lazy to even answer her.

Fifteen minutes.

Eighteen minutes.

"Edison Miller, get down here this instant!"

Twenty minutes.

Footsteps coming up the stairs.

Your mother appearing in your doorway, heading towards you.

You slightly glance at her but keep on playing your game.

"No, you're done playing," she says, standing in front of the television. "I'm sick of your indolent attitude."

You helplessly watch as she unplugs the TV. The sad part is that you're too lethargic to go plug it back in. It's unplugged for a week and a half.

_Change_, you thought, as you stepped into Anubis house for your first time.

No more carelessness.

There were still traces of your passiveness, but you started pulling yourself out of that slump and forced yourself to exert energy.

You feel bad for your mother when you stop and think about it for a little while.

You're angry at yourself for putting her through that much shit.

Sitting around on your ass all day, scrunching up your face at the mere thought of effort, because of one particular creature that dwindled on your interior daily:

_Sloth._

* * *

five;; **greed**

((Thud, thud, thud.)) Your heart is pounding against your chest. You run, your sneakers smacking against the pavement. You hear police sirens in the distance and you bite your lip as you stick your hand in the pocket of your jeans and feel the diamond earrings sitting in there, weighing it down like an anchor.

You got them for your mom's birthday because (I mean, you just want her to have nice things).

You could've bought her something you could afford or just have easily made something and she'd absolutely love it, but that's not as fun.

You're addicted to the rush of danger.

You always want more, even though you have quite enough.

You round a corner and stop in front of a rundown looking building. You smirk as you lug open the heavy door and walk down the long, dimly lit hallway. You're not completely positive, but you're pretty sure that this used to be a mental hospital. So ((good, you're right at home.))

You push open a door near the end of the corridor and jog down the cement stairs; the stench of mold overpowering your sense of smell. You can hear the bass thumping as you grow closer to the bottom, underground floor.

You finally make it down all the way and the smoke hits you in an instant. You cough and push your way through the crowd of people at the entrance to the huge room. Your friend John, the one who throws these wild, huge parties, spots you and makes his way over.

"Eddie, my boy!" he yells, his speech just a little slurred.

"Hey Johnny," you smile, doing a handshake with him.

"Didja run from the po-po again?" he laughs loudly ((and yeah, you can tell he's completely smashed.))

You shrug, a smug look gracing your features. "Might've. So who's got the stuff today?"

He gestures for you to follow him, and you make your way through the mass of people to a corner of the room blocked off by heavy red drapes.

"Mikey's got some stuff in there," he points. You nod and go in, Johnny performing a disappearing act in seconds.

Mikey, another one of your 'friends', looks up from where he's sitting on a pillow, surrounded by junkies, as you enter. He wordlessly pushes a plate of white powder and a straw towards you. You take a seat on a pillow and pull out one of your credit cards, separating the coke into pretty little lines.

((The snow is just oh so lovely, isn't it?))

You snort your first line. Then your second. And ((shit, that's strong.)) You're already feeling it, all in your bones. You snicker as you make an allusion in your mind between yourself and _The Lovely Bones_. Because the drugs running through your being just remind you so much of the quote that for some reason has always stuck like a leech in your mind, since having to read that book for school: 'These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence.' ((And boy are you astray. You don't remember the last time you felt like you were alive. Your vitality has vanished.))

You do another line, and another, and the last one. Because you're greedy. Nothing's ever sufficient for you, is it? You're not even satisfied one bit, and you want more.

You gesture to Mikey that you want something else. Something stronger. Do you need it? Should you take more? ((God, _no._)) You don't really give a flying fuck though. He passes you a needle.

You raise an eyebrow. "Ecstasy?"

"Of course. Only the best for my little Ed-man."

You nod, and then stop for a moment. You just stare at Mikey. He doesn't look like the type of kid to be such a drug lord. He's lanky and he's got these nerdy, square glasses and the slightest hint of a lisp. ((He's just a _kid _and he's so fucked up. But then, so are you.))

Why are you doing this to yourself? You're about to put the needle down; _stop_. You _know _it's not a good idea and that you're gonna get _so _messed up.

But then you think of the _danger _that will come with mixing the drugs. You feel that portentous rush of crisis and (so you shoot smack in your veins.)

Your eyes start to roll back as you feel the ecstasy taking over your body. You pull it out of your arm when it's done and throw it on the floor. You stand up and stagger out of the makeshift room, out to the affair.

"Party, mothafuckas!" you yell at the top of your lungs, getting on top of the wooden bar. Everyone cheers around you, dancing with drinks in hand, and you dance too. You sway your hips in time to the beat of the booming music and laugh endlessly.

But then, the drugs really kick in and you feel so _heavy. _You blink rapidly - everything feels like it's in slow motion.

Johnny comes over and stares at you, worried. "You alright Eddie? Your nose kinda looks a little red... Is it - is your nose bleeding? Oh _fuck_, is your nose bleeding?!" He pulls you down and you don't protest; you can hardly move. You don't even feel the blood dripping down into your mouth. Johnny has your arm and is pulling you through the massive throng of bodies, trying to get you out. You think he yells at some guy you can't seem to remember the name of to call 911. Then you black out.

/

You wake up thinking ((it was worth it.))

You look around the too white, too sanitary room that you're in, lying on a too hard mattress. You look over to your left and your mom is sitting in a chair that looks too stiff. Her blonde hair with the few gray hairs mixed in (that are a result of _your _actions), is pulled into a messy bun, she's wearing old jeans, a baggy UCLA sweatshirt that you're pretty sure hasn't seen the light of day since before you were born, and ratty old Vans, and she has her head in her hands.

You clear your throat and she looks up instantly. The first thing you notice is that she looks so very _tired. _She looks much older than she ever has or should look and there's aubergine bags under her ocean colored eyes. And you honestly, at that moment, just want to cry because you know that you did this to her.

But you still can't help it when she quietly says ("You're in the hospital, Eddie.") to snap back, "Yeah, thanks for the memo. I hadn't noticed mom."

((And you fucking hate yourself.))

She nods faintly and says, "I can't do this anymore, baby boy. I'm sorry."

You pull your eyebrows together in confusion. "What are you talking about?" you ask her.

Your once put together, immaculate mother stands up slowly and walks to the foot of the bed. She says with her eyes cast downward, "You're going to live with your father..."

You sit up fast and (wow, that was a bad choice - your head feels like it going to fall off and you feel like you might vomit any second.)

Despite you feeling like complete shit as a result of your disastrous choices the previous night, you shake your head fiercely. "Mom, no, you can't do that! You can't send me over there in a country filled with a bunch of pretentious snobs to live with my pathetic excuse of a _father_." You spit the words out of your mouth as if they're poison.

She swallows hard and continues. "He - well, he misses you and wants to be close to you again." You snort, shaking your head. _Right_, like you're going to believe _that _bullshit. _He's_ the one who left _you_. "He's the headmaster of a prestigious boarding school there. There's different houses to board in, and there's an opening at one. He said it was called Anubis House. Eight other students live there too; your father said they were very nice and-"

"I don't care if they're _nice_!" you shriek, cutting her off again. "I'm not leaving my entire life here in America to go drink tea and eat crumpets and bow for the Queen and listen to a bunch of snotty British rich kids bitch and moan all day!"

"You don't exactly have a choice here Eddie. You're going," she says tiredly.

"The fuck I am," you mutter, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest.

"They're going to release you soon. They were just waiting for you to wake up so they could run some tests. When we get home, start packing your bags. You leave on Monday night."

"In two days?!" you cry exasperatedly. Your mom purses her lips, turns on her worn out heel and wordlessly walks out to the nurse's station.

You groan because there's no way to get out of this one without running away, and you really don't have the determination to do that.

/

When you get home, you stomp up the stairs, slam your door shut and lock it and then switch on your stereo and turn the volume up as high as it can go.

And the first thing you do (because it's what you're always thinking about - more, more, more) is light up some dope you have stashed under your mattress and float away to the never ending swaying haze as you ((inhale, exhale, repeat)). You flop down on your bed and close your eyes, dazed and confused, as Tom Petty's voice drifts through the speakers: '_Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain.'_

You're way past gone now and not even bothering to put up with the struggle of kicking to try and stay afloat, and it's because you're so very abundant with an imperfection:

_Greed.  
_

* * *

six;; **lust**

You're the guy that always got all the girls.

When you'd walk down the hallway at school, all heads would turn to look at you. All you'd have to do is merely glance at a girl and give her that signature charming Miller smile, and she'd be hungering for you, an animalistic look in her eyes.

You always thought it was absurd, how girls tried so hard to get with a guy. They'd doll themselves up: paint their lips various shades of red, burn their hair into perfectly coiffed curls, and accentuate their curves with the tightest clothes they can bear. All to impress some guy. To impress _you._

((You'd be lying if you said you didn't love it.))

Everyone wanted to be with you and you were never alone. You were constantly surrounded by people. ((But you were so _lonely_.))

You never wanted a relationship though. You witnessed enough of those ending badly to disassociate yourself with them completely. They just meant empty promises and lies and someone always getting hurt in the end. ((You were really just tainted and bitter over your parents' divorce because you saw first hand what it did to your mother.))

The names of all the girls you hooked up with seemed to endlessly blur together in your mind.

For a long time, your mom still thought of you as chaste and virtuous. ((But you were so very far from it.)) You did, after all, lose your virginity when you were just hardly thirteen. (And you don't remember what her name even fucking starts with.)

You couldn't help your avidity to screw around.

But all you ever let yourself become involved in were those no strings attached, one night stand things. You never allowed any girls to come back to your house, you always went to theirs. (Because you always left in the morning.)

It all became a game to you. You had a routine down pat. You'd go to a party and fascinate a stupid girl you picked out from the crowd with your charisma. Dance with her and stare at her with hypnotizing eyes. It'd feel like you almost put her under a spell, she'd be so ditzy and allured. Then you'd amp up your sex appeal; seduce her for long enough that when you'd say ("Hey, wanna get out of here?") she'd just nod her head in a trance-like motion, giggling like an idiot. You'd grab her hand and lace your fingers through hers, pulling her close and making her feel so very _special _as you led her outside. ("How about we go to your house?") you'd say suavely and then brush your lips against hers - just enough where she'd be begging for more. Once you got to her house, you'd charm the pants off of her. You'd kick her bedroom door closed and lock it behind you, then kiss her roughly, pinning her against it. Then you'd switch off the lights and take an agonizingly slow time to bring her over to her bed. ((No girl ever questioned it because they were with _Eddie Miller _for god's sake and any girl would be damned to turn you down.)) Once you were in bed with her, and clothes were shed, you'd go slow at first and make it memorable. But then you got tired of it and satisfied your own needs. After, you'd collapse onto the mattress next to her, quickly falling asleep.

Every time before you left a party with a girl, you'd make sure to set your phone alarm for early the next morning. Because once it went off, you'd sneak out from the warm body heat under the duvet and pull on your clothes, not caring that you still reeked of sex as you crept through the silent, unfamiliar house and let yourself out.

Every girl thought she would be your _one_; that they would open their doe eyes the morning after and find a pair of hazel eyes looking back at her. But they never did. And every girl thought she was _different_. Yet they never were.

((But one was.))

/

When you arrived at your _fancy _new English school, you were angry and tired and cranky.

You were so _not_ happy that you were there, and you traveled for twelve fucking hours straight, so saying you were a _little_ irritated was a huge understatement.

You just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. You found a fairly comfortable looking couch in the school in what looked to be some sort of hang out room (What school _has those _besides the movies? you wondered to yourself) and so you laid down and rested your eyes. You were just drifting off peacefully when you were disturbed by someone walking into your foot. (_Hello, _watch where you're _going._)

You sat up, saying, "Whoa," with your already dwindling patience coming even more threateningly close to becoming nonexistent.

"Stick your feet in, will you?" an annoyed (and very, ugh, _British_) voice snapped at you.

"You woke me," you said, yawning.

"Yeah, well student lounges are for lounging, not sleeping. Clue's in the name?" All you can think is that you were right about snotty foreign kids.

((And you are _so _not in the mood to deal with this shit.))

You sit up all the way, fully intending to put this vexatious redhead in her place. "Okay, I was on a plane for eight hours, and then I was on a train for four more, and now I'm in Boresville, UK. I don't need a lecture. 'Kay Hermione?" you say in nonchalant annoyance. You hear a gasp from the girl standing next to the redhead that you hadn't bothered to even glance at before.

"Great, that's all we need! Another patronizing American-" ((You give her a pompous smirk as she says this)) "-whose only reference to the UK is Harry Potter. Who are you anyway?"

"Who are you?" you banter back, finally _actually _looking at her, up and down.

"I asked first," she says, in the same irked tone she's had the whole time.

You actually chuckle out loud at the childlike comeback. "Really?"

She continues, "Next time you trip somebody up, remember it's considered polite to apologize in this country."

((All you can think is _shut up, **shut up**! _Your composure and tolerance for dealing with this kind of bullshit has vanished completely by now.))

"Do you _ever _stop talking?!" you ask her, exaggerating your words with your hands. "I should call you Blabs. Or Yacker. Ahh, Yacker," you point at her.

"Well maybe I should call _you _a cab back to the airport." There's fire in her eyes. But does it get to you? No, it wasn't a low enough blow.

"Oooh." You clap sarcastically for her, slowly. "Devastating."

"Well as much as I'd love to stand here trading stereotypes, I think I'm gonna go hang somewhere else."

You mutter, "Alright," and make yourself comfortable on the couch again.

As the pair walks away, you faintly hear the shorter, brown haired girl say, "He's pretty cute, huh?" and Yacker scoff, "He likes to think he is."

And you find yourself intrigued with this girl, whoever she is. Later when you encounter her at the house, and you're met with more jeers from her, you wonder (much to your dismay) how you could get her. You've never had a girl put up a fight against you before. Girls always just fell into your lap.

And you think to yourself, with with big, nervous eyes, ((she's _different_)).

/

The next morning at breakfast, all you have to say is, "I'm Eddie, and uh, nobody told me English girls are so cute," and all the girls (except Yacker) are giggling and saying ("Oh, _you_"). This is almost _too _easy - to excite these girls; get them to lust after you.

And for the first time in your life, you don't want any of them. You want a challenge. You want _her_.

/

You pull down her walls, you show her your playful side, you get her to dance with you.

((And it makes you feel awful.)) Because it reminds you too much of how you used to pick up girls and you can't place a finger on exactly why, but you don't want it to be the same way with her. And it was all for a fucking bet and your self respect for yourself is horribly low, especially when she says ("But sometimes, just sometimes, you know how to be a good guy.") Because you _don't_. You're _not _a good guy. You're lousy with people's feelings, you're heinous in your demeanor, and you're terribly, terribly unholy.

You deserve that milk getting dumped on your head the next morning and you know it. You don't even have it in you to be mad at her for it.

/

But you _like _her. She's the only one to have ever had enough guts and willpower to tango in time with you around undisclosed desires in your heart.

(When did your life become a Muse song?)

So you put down that force field (_shoooop, _down it goes), and actually show someone the _real _you for the first time in you don't even know when.

You don't want to sleep with her or make her weak for you. ((That old Eddie Miller is seemingly nowhere to be found within you.))

You find yourself wanting to just hold her hand and make her smile. When she's whiny and upset, to kiss that pout off of her face. To just spend time with her and be able to hug her and cuddle with her and just _hold _her whenever you want. You've never had the feeling you get around her before.

((There's butterflies fluttering and tickling your insides and you find yourself falling in love with different little pieces of her, day by day.))

And once you finally get her, you never plan on letting her go.

But life has a funny way of working, doesn't it? It messes everything up when you're finally happy and everything is okay for once.

/

That summer was the worst of your entire life.

It was even worse than the summer way back that your dad left you in.

You couldn't understand _why _Patricia broke up with you. You were happy and she was happy and you loved her and she loved you and _what _went wrong?

You couldn't help but think that it was all your fault. So you punished yourself for it.

You went back to your old ways. You slept with an incessant amount of girls and your heart broke a little more each time you did.

((By the end of the summer, you had no heart left.))

You were emotionless; just hollowly and numbly going through the motions of life without really being there.

/

But then you found your way back to her ((because you could never not.))

And you let her light yourself up like you never thought you would again (And wow, you're so cheesy but how could you not be now?)

And everything was enough with her. Everything was complete.

You never pushed her, and you never wanted more. You felt content and it was a new feeling.

You couldn't for the life of you remember why before, you went through girls like they were tissues and relished on the fact that you were so wanted, but you know, deep down, it was because you pushed away feelings and coveted a devilish thing that did nothing for you:

_Lust._

* * *

seven;; **pride**

The worst of them all, for it's what causes all the other sinful actions to arise. It taints every virtue.

You're aware that it's what you've always struggled the most with, ever since you were fed with loads of crap when you were a kid, with people telling you left and right, ("You've just gotta believe in yourself because you can do _anything_.")

It's not true. You can't do anything you want. That's not in anyone's power. But that didn't stop you from becoming vain and self-righteous.

Something you heard once in a movie cemented itself into your psyche because it uppercut you in your gut, too close to home:

(('He's competing with the sun for the center of the universe.'))

You were always over confident and you never let your guard down. (Until you met Patricia.)

When you would get into fights, anything the other guy would say just flew past your ears. It didn't hurt your ego; that was too big for it to.

The truculent bickering you would get into with Patricia, well, that stung like hell. You pretended it didn't; that her words didn't cut straight into you like a dagger pushing and twisting far, far into you.

But you were arrogant - you believed you were the source of your own greatness, and everyone saw it. It's just that no one ever decided to test your hubris until you came to Anubis.

Back in America, you were one of those peevish punk kids that listened to angsty teenage rebellion music (blink-182, Fall Out Boy, Sum 41, Good Charlotte - you name it). You believed that the universe was out to get you and that you were underestimated by the world.

Once you came to England though, over time ((especially because of you getting involved with Sibuna and being the Osirian)), your humility rose.

You became more selfless, more humble.

((Until the unthinkable happened.))

/

It's precisely a week and a half after Sibuna defeated Ammit and Robert Frobisher-Smythe left with Harriet.

You just had dinner with your dad in his office at the school and as you were walk back to Anubis House, you have your hands stuffed in the pockets of your pants and you realize you never brought your phone. You left it in the living room on the coffee table. Once you walk through the front doors of the house, you immediately know something is wrong. It's _too _quiet in the house for six o'clock in the evening. The house is usually bustling with the latest love drama or ("she said _what_?") or Alfie and Jerome's newest prank or Trudy cooking up a storm and running about making sure everything is neat and clean or Victor yelling at someone or other for whatever reason he could think of. But there's none of that.

There's just serenity.

But as you walk into the living room, you're met with your fellow housemates' heads turning to look at you (but no sign of Trudy or Victor, strangely) and a tension in the air so thick that you could cut it with a knife.

"Hey guys, what's up?" you greet them, a hint of uncertainty in your voice. And all you get is silence and confused faces from everyone. "What's going on...?"

Fabian, being your best friend, speaks up. "I think maybe you should um, come over here." You slowly walk over to the group, your hands tingling.

((What could be so bad that they're all looking at you like _that_?))

Patricia is sitting in the center of the couch in front of the dining room table, Joy sitting on her left and Fabian on her right. Jerome is sitting in the armchair next to Joy, and KT is in the one next to him. On the other couch sit Willow, Alfie, and Mara. There's a laptop open on the coffee table, and your phone is unlocked, and on Patricia's lap.

She looks up as you approach and says, "Who's Johnny?" ((And then your blood runs cold.))

"What." It comes out as a statement instead of a question and your voice is squeaky, as if you're a young boy, going through puberty. A million thoughts rush through your head and you think hey, maybe she's talking about a different Johnny. (Not that you even know another one.)

She holds up your phone, shaking it a little. "You left your phone here. And it kept going off, you kept getting texts. So I just picked it up to unlock it, so it'd stop making noise. And they were all from a Johnny. I didn't think it would hurt to just hit messages, because he wouldn't stop sending texts. I didn't mean to actually read any, but the first one I saw accidentally and... and it said 'Dude, why didn't you tell me you slept with Rebecca Wood?!'"

You swallow hard. Great. Fucking _great_. You open your mouth and all you say is, "Um." Before you can think of something smarter to say, Patricia holds up a hand.

"So then I saw the second message, and it said, 'Hey anyway, it's been too long man. Let's catch up when you're back in the States, we could shoot up some dope or something. Cool?' The messages weren't really anything after that."

You wonder if you run now, how far you can make it before someone comes to their senses and catches you.

You wonder if maybe you could speak to the house with those Osirian powers of yours like ("Hey, now would be a wonderful time to swallow me whole through the floor or something!")

You wonder if you could just look at Patricia and say ("It's all lies darling.") But you couldn't say that fib because you promised yourself to try your hardest to be honest with her. You wouldn't be able to unglue your eyes from the floor long enough to play dumb and deceive her.

You think ((_this is how it ends_)).

Fabian looks at you now, apologetically. "I was on my laptop when they saw the phone and Patricia wanted to see who this Rebecca Wood was, so... she took it and went and looked her up on Facebook and well, she looked through her friends, to, you know, see if you were friends with her I guess?" Fabian sounds so uncomfortable and you feel so bad for him.

You think Joy senses it too, because she cuts in for him to continue. "Patricia did find you on her friends, but it wasn't your regular Facebook page. It looked older and we were just, we were really confused. You had thousands of friends and comments and pictures and we wanted to know what was up and so we just looked at the pictures..."

You sigh through your nose and try your hardest not to hyperventilate. You feel like you're going to throw up, but you know if you ran to the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet, all you would do is dry heave.

"There... there were pictures of you smoking and drinking at parties and with lots of different girls hanging all over you and of you looking really, really high. I mean, we didn't want to jump to conclusions, but..." Joy trails off, that unspoken ('all the pieces lined up - your secret's out') lying out in the open.

"Didn't know you were that type of guy Eddie. Y'know, what do they call it in America? A player?" Jerome chuckles.

"I'm _not_," you say firmly, your temper rising rapidly.

"Ooh, well Rebecca Wood's comment on your page about having 'a _really_, really _great_ time the other night' from a few months ago implies otherwise," he says, a vile grin spreading across his face. You clench your hand into a fist and resist the urge to deck him. You just look over at Patricia, and she quickly glances away from you. But you still saw the wounded expression on her face.

"I feel like I don't even know who you are," she says finally, getting up and walking over until she's face to face with you, behind the two armchairs.

"You do! I promise, you _do _Yacker," you say, your eyes sad, trying to make her believe you.

"_Don't _call me that," she growls. "Just go fuck Rebecca, why don't you?" she says, pushing you back hard.

"It was when we broke up!" you screech hysterically, without thinking. ((Smooth move, ex-lax.))

"So you really did then?!" you hear Jerome remark in amazement. You roll your eyes, mentally punching yourself in the face for mistakenly admitting to your immoral deed.

"It doesn't matter if we broke up! You _knew _I still loved you and you claimed that you loved me too. Apparently not," Patricia shouts, her voice cracking and thick with unshed tears.

"I did! I _do_. I-" you cry but you're cut off for what seems like the umpteenth time tonight.

"Save it. Just leave me alone. And why don't you go smoke some pot with your good friend Johnny while you're at it? You know, you are so inane, it's almost laughable. You're revolting." Tears finally start streaming down her face and you feel so atrocious but her words hurt you bad. "Oh did I hurt your feelings? Maybe you should go run to daddy Sweetie and tell him all about it, louse. God, I hate you."

And you can't help putting that shield of yours up in seconds after she speaks. That over self-glorification that you sealed away tight comes washing over you and that nasty bad habit of scrunching your face up into a grimace that you thought you'd gotten rid of finds it way back onto your face. In that moment, you can't find the fairness in the situation at all. No one will _listen _to you, they keep putting in _their _thoughts and without listening to yours.

Everyone's judging you on a past that they could never even begin to wrap their minds around and it is just not _fair. _((But life's never fair, love.))

So you sense that smugness seeping back into your presence and all of a sudden you're retorting back at her, "Great, well the feeling's mutual then, _bloody wench_. Hate you too."

She gasps. "Tosser!" (You're not completely sure what that means, but you know that it's no term of endearment.)

"Whatever, fuck off," you mutter, grabbing your phone from her hand swiftly. You turn away from her angered and distressed face and take long, quick strides to get yourself the hell out of there. Once you get outside, you just run to escape what you're feeling.

You may have just lost the best thing that's ever happened to you; the thing you would not only die for but _live _for, and it's due to a harmful unseen that's entirely destructive:

_Pride._

* * *

unnumbered;; **epilogue **

Your life is spinning out of control. Now, you're not abundant with inactivity, or physical desire. You're not miserly or jealous. You're not even angry.

You're just so fucking disconsolate.

Your life is falling apart before your very eyes, all over again, but in a completely different, even more horrific way than before.

You make your way over to the crypt and ((what the hell?)), when did you start crying? Sobs wrack your body and you push open the door. You see the shattered glass scattered around from when you had made your escape, those couple of weeks ago. You sit on the floor and stare at the stone coffin, your eyes still wet.

As you glance around the tomb, you're overwhelmed with the total blackness and despair that life is finite.

Death. ((You're so fucking afraid.))

Why does it have to happen? You remember reading _Tuck Everlasting _in middle school, and how, after reading it, everyone in your class had agreed that it wouldn't be much fun living forever. ((You didn't think that. Bullshit.)) You would give anything not to have to take that last breath, to have your heart stop its steady rhythm, and the oxygen flow to your brain halted to a stop. But maybe you're just lying to yourself and you really do want to succumb. You're already dead inside now.

((You're not alive. You're just breathing air.))

You feel awful. You want your mom stroking your hair and singing sweet lullabies to you. You want Fabian acting nerdy and giving you advice. You want Amber not getting your American jokes. You want KT slinging that arm around your neck, telling you it'll be alright. You want Alfie doing stupid things causing you to break out into hysterical laughter. You want your dad making corny jokes. But most of all, you want Patricia.

You want her there. You want her touches, and her warm embrace, and her soft lips. You want her harsh voice and stormy eyes.

You want to take back everything bad you ever did to her, intentional or not. ((But you can't now, can you? Not after you told her you hated her, not after you told her to, basically, go fuck herself.))

God, you're _so_ damn _sorry_. What else can you do now but sit in here and rot? The irony: you'd be dead in the very place where, not too long ago, old Frobie pretended to be. In the place intended to seal a carcass in for eternity.

As your mind races, you think about the fact that death is inevitable. (What's the point of living anyway?)

You're a sinner. You've committed almost every transgression one could think of. You really don't know how you weren't taken during the past Sibuna adventure. ((Maybe because you're too damn good at putting on a facade.))

You're crying so much you can barely even see. Your cheeks are stained with tears. You're hurting _so bad_, and Jesus, you just want it to _stop_.

You make a hasty decision. You know it's wrong and you know it's stupid, but quite frankly, you don't give a damn. The words of Friar Lawrence run through your brain (_wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast_) but irregardless, you grab a shard of glass from the floor and sink onto your knees.

Your hand is shaking, shaking, shaking as you push the glass down on your exposed wrist. It hurts, god, _it hurts_, but at least it takes away the pain eating and clawing at your insides for a moment. You finally just _do it_, make that first slit; you just watch the thick scarlet blood bubble out and drip, drip onto the floor, staining it.

((Ouch, you have lost yourself again.))

You do it over and over. You can't even recognize your arms anymore. Blood oozes out everywhere. As you go to make another cut, your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You pull it out and look at it. **Yacker.** It pulls you from your trance and you drop the glass on the floor, a look of terror on your face because ((what have you _done_?)), and you answer it.

"He- hello?"

"Eddie?" Her voice, so smooth.

"Ye- yeah. What's up Y- yacker?" You know by now she can tel something is wrong. She's good like that. Your voice is laden with sorrow and tears and sheer _pain_.

"Eddie, what's the the matter?" You don't answer her. You can't. Your arms are draining out hemoglobin and your mind is blacking out.

You look down for a moment and gag. ((Oh no, oh god, no, when did you make a cut that fucking _deep_? That's too fucking close to your _vein_.))

She sighs. "Doofus? Eddie. Eddie, are you okay?"

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. I didn't - I didn't mean to do it Patricia. I don't know why..." you trail off.

"What are you talking about? What'd you do?" She sounds nervous.

You let out a cry. More pain shoots through your body.

"I just, I couldn't take it anymore. It was all too much. I wanted everything to _stop _for just one damn second. But I- I love you, Yacker. I'm so fucking sorry, I love you so fucking much, please remember that."

She knows you did something stupid now. She's in hysterics. "Eddie, oh my god, Eddie where _are _you? No, Eddie."

"Th- the crypt. Wh- when I said I hated you, I didn't mean it. God, I don't. I love you baby, I do. Save me," you whisper the last part and you feel like your breath is running out. You hear her yelling (to Fabian or KT or someone, you think), but it sounds so very far away. You can hear her shoes slapping down on the floor as she runs through the phone, but then it slips out of your hand and falls on the floor, right in the sticky mess of your blood. You fall back onto your butt and slump against the wall.

You have no energy. Your eyes are fluttering shut. You think, ((I just wish I got to hold Patricia one last time before I die.))

Your breathing is getting so heavy. Your life is flashing before your eyes. (Oh, so the saying is true.)

Heavy footsteps approach, and you hear piercing voices and screaming, but it just sounds like they're speaking in tongues. You feel warm arms wrap around you and you want to put your arms around whoever it is too, but you can't lift them.

You force your eyes open and, oh, _Patricia_. You've never been more happy in your life (and that's not an exaggeration). She kisses you hard and soft at the same time, over and over. Your cheeks feel wet again ((and you thought you'd stopped crying)), but it isn't you, it's Patricia. You can't help but think that you feel like such a selfish bastard, that you made her cry. She's whispering 'I love you's' into your skin, and you know that she's getting blood all over her but she doesn't care.

Fabian and KT and Alfie are in the background of your vision and they're crying too and Fabian's on the phone with the hospital.

You wish you could just make. It. Stop.

You feel so, so bad. You know it's over. You know the ambulance isn't going to get here in time. You know that, ultimately, with your death, it will bring Patricia's death, and your father's death, and Sibuna's death, and everyone's death.

You believe it all is coming to an end now.

"I'm so sorry, I love you," you say to Patricia, with all the strength you can muster up.

"No, no, Eddie! _No_! No, I love you, you stupid slimeball, _I love you_, and you're going to be okay," Patricia yells, kissing you harder. You know that in mere seconds, she'll be kissing a corpse.

"I love you too, Yacker," you say with your last dying breath, a smile forming on your lips.

And then it's over. The pain stops, your eyes shut, your breathing ceases. One last thud of your heart in your chest, and then you're gone. You've reached the end.

The end that is total silence, emptiness, oblivion.


End file.
